


This Time

by omg_wtf_yeah



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-13
Updated: 2010-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:11:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omg_wtf_yeah/pseuds/omg_wtf_yeah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for the entire series. Frank thinks about Tim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [Unlove You](http://community.livejournal.com/un_love_you/) prompt table: 1. You were right about me.  
> The title is from the OK Go song, "Maybe, This Time."

The blank brick wall filled Frank’s field of vision, a tired expanse of chipped paint that throbbed in time with the ache behind his left eye. The fluorescent overheads gilded his dark skin a deeper hue and against it, the whites of his eyes were piercing and bright. His eyes moved slowly, shaped like two downturned moons as he gazed blindly at a low point on the far wall and thought of something else. Two hours ago, he’d been thinking about the stupidity of human nature, secure in his superiority and the line between them, the criminals, and his ilk, the enforcers of the law.

He passed a hand over his smooth scalp and massaged his temple in small deep motions that creased his skin. Had he known what he knew now, he might have reconsidered returning to the Baltimore Police Department. But in the four phone calls Tim had hung out across the distance, brief ponderous silences had been the only clue that something was wrong.

With Tim, something was always wrong. He lived in “wrong.” He breathed “wrong.” He had to shoulder every burden that came with the job and the burdens were many that could be borne.

Frank lifted his eyes to the featureless ceiling and light bulbs caged by steel wire suspended at even distances down the length of the hall outside the cells. He pursed his lips in an expression like surrender and dropped his eyes to the wall. The small sound of a polished shoe scraping the floor drew Frank’s eyes and for a minute, he stood with his shoulders pitched and his hand on his hip, at a loss for what to do now. His heart was still beating too fast to think straight after Tim threw him the curve ball on the roof.

Tim, the choirboy, had shot a man down.

Where could he go from there? He wanted to demand an answer from Tim and Tim couldn’t give him any answer that would suffice. And what could Frank give him? He wasn’t a man who could yield comfort. That night on the pier when Tim had told him about his uncle with the moonlight on the water and Tim, drunk and angry, had proven it well. Frank could solve murders, he could put people away, he could peel back falseness to the bare bones of fact but the only absolution he could offer was a jail cell.

And Tim – how the hell had Tim become the criminal? He’d given himself to the cause of righteousness over Adena Watson’s small broken body in the rain and sworn to avenge her. In the eight years that passed, he couldn’t give that up. In the best of times, Adena was the ghost at Tim’s shoulder, hers the soft voice of the discourse in his ear, prodding him to open that evidence box up and inspect every relic of the brutal crime again. Every time they’d stood over a lifeless body, Tim had borne the wounds, the quiet suffering of the dead and wished it had been his own. What was the use? Tim was used to suffering. His uncle and his father had taught him the art of silence and endurance of pain. Seven years made him a killer when he couldn’t accept the suffering of victims anymore.

Frank never could forgive him his stupidity. The thing that made Tim go back when he should’ve walked away.

“Son of a bitch.”

Frank could walk away. He’d walked away three years ago. He’d given Gee his shield but he’d lied to Tim when he’d said it was because he couldn’t accept any more confessions. Deception was Frank’s vice. He’d walked out rather than fail Tim again like he had when Tim had taken the bullet. Like Tim had said before - he was good at walking away and he was right.

“I’m done here,” Frank called out to the guard. The heavy sound of the bars opening and slamming shut was the sound of his good bye.


End file.
